


The Present

by Lightcudder



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Brothers, Christmas, Death, Gift, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Loss, Recovery, Rescue, homeless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:43:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightcudder/pseuds/Lightcudder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas on Tracy Island. But someone is missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Present

**The Present**

Disclaimer; I do not own these characters. Not for profit.

And yes there are plot errors in this story! I know!! But it was written for fun. Use your imagination!

 I could have extended it, but I really wanted it to be pithy and concise.

**Prologue**

The night shelter for the homeless was generally busy at this time of year. With the coming of the colder weather many of the drunks and drug addicts and other homeless men were reluctant to stay out on the streets overnight. Tonight was no exception.

There was a knock on the door. She went to answer it.

Yet another scruffy, unwashed male in his late twenties, standing there looking helpless and pitiful. They always did, she thought. Well, at least he didn’t reek of alcohol, and his eyes looked clear and focussed. His clothes were shabby, ill-fitting but reasonably clean, and he was as clean as one could possibly be, when sleeping on the streets.

Perhaps not another drunk, or addict.

Perhaps a genuine homeless victim of a family rift. And it was the beginning of December. She still had a couple of beds spare.  He could have one of them. He had a nice smile she noticed.

**Chapter 1**

Tracy Island was quiet on Christmas Eve. The island itself seemed subdued, seemed depressed. The beaches were deserted, the waves mere gentle ripples on the pale sand as if afraid to intrude on the family’s grief. Even the bird song was muted.

In the main house Jeff looked at the tree, decorated as always with the family collection of baubles, one bought each year for each son. But there had been no baubles purchased this year, no festive trip to the mainland to select a tree decoration. It had been a silly tradition, started when the boys were very young and somehow it had carried on, year after year, but no more.

He had still put the tree up though. He had to make some effort this year, despite everything,  despite...... he could not go on.

The tree was the only concession to the season. That, and a small pile of parcels, wrapped and placed under the tree with its baubles and tinsel. The pile was smaller this year, smaller than it had ever been.

 He would have done without any of it, would have preferred to have stayed in his bed, blankets pulled tightly over his head, trying to forget what the season was. He would have done anything to have slept through the next couple of days; to wake after the fake jollity and pretend festivities were over.

But he had to carry on. For their sakes. For the ones who were left.

Virgil.

His heart wrenched with the name of his son. The son who he had lost. The son who he would never see again.

Virgil.

Dear God, how could it have happened?

He blinked back the tears and saw Scott come into the room, quietly and pensively, carrying a parcel wrapped in festive paper.

‘Dad?’ he spoke softly, and Jeff could hear the tears in his voice.  ‘Dad, I found this. It was in Virgil’s room. I wanted to make sure it was tidy and I found this box under his bed. It’s addressed to us all. It’s a Christmas present.’ He stopped speaking, unable to go on.

Jeff went over to him and held his oldest son tightly. There was nothing to say. Nothing that could ease the pain, the heartbreaking pain of the loss.

Jeff recalled the rescue on the first day of the  month. Could he have done anything different?  Could he have saved Virgil? Was it his fault that there was now an empty place at the table, an empty bed in the house? He knew that Scott and Alan felt the same way. Each blaming themselves for what had happened.

But no one was to blame.

It had just been fate that the building had collapsed at that exact moment. They had searched and searched with every piece of equipment they had at their disposal, eventually tearing at the rubble and bricks with their bare, bloody hands until they were forced to stop from sheer exhaustion.

There had been no sign of him. No pale blue uniform, no yellow flash, no sound, no sight, nothing.

They had searched hospitals, rescue  centres, everywhere in the hope that somehow he had been rescued by another group, but nothing. The earthquake had devastated the surrounding area and communications were poor, as was record keeping.

If Virgil had been found he would have contacted them  by now. It was more likely that his body had been trapped deep in the ruins of the building, never to be exhumed.

Virgil.

Jeff walked slowly out of the room, a man aged before his time, bowed down with the burden of guilt, of loss, of unbearable sorrow.

And tomorrow was Christmas Day. How could he face it? How could they bear to see the piano there, waiting for Virgil to stroke its keys with his sensitive fingers, to test its tuning and then begin playing Christmas songs.

There would be no Christmas songs this year. Their Christmas meal would be a celebration, but not of the birth of a baby; instead it would be a celebration of the life of one of the family, a life cut short.

Virgil.

**Chapter 2**

The homeless shelter, far away from the devastated city, had had its fair share of residents who had been made homeless in the quake, but they had moved on to better places.

Now it was back to normal, the drunks, the addicts, the young men who had fallen out with their families.

And the unknown one.  He had had no name, so they called him Jon although he sometimes seemed uncomfortable with that name. He had arrived shortly after the quake, in shabby ill-fitting  clothes that were obviously not his own.

He was gentle and quiet, helpful, considerate and ...... lonely. He would stand and look out at the busy  streets, watch people go by, listen to conversations, but would never join in, as if he did not belong here.

He had no recollection of his past, no memories of his life before the shelter, nothing to remember. A lonely, forgotten man, trapped in a world he did not understand, friendless and bereft.

She ached for him.

Christmas night they all sat and watched the television, everyone. It was a tradition that they watched the Christmas Eve film followed by the late news and then the residents would get ready for bed.

It meant that they were not outside in the cold, getting drunk, or getting drugs. Jon was quite happy to sit inside, in the warmth, enjoying the film.

The news came on. A round up of the year’s events.

Jon watched half-heartedly, his mind more on the comforts of his bed, even though it was in a dormitory  with fifteen other men.

The television picture changed to show the city devastated by the earthquake earlier in the season, and the rescue teams working to save the trapped.

He sat up, straighter, almost rigid with anticipation. He gasped, clutching his head in his hands as if to hold in a memory. Then turned to her. Smiling.

‘My name. I know my name.’

**Epilogue**

In the living room of Tracy Island, the following day, Jeff was about  to open the present from Virgil’s room, when the phone rang.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
